The Bear Rug Story: A Selection from Neal Stephenson’s Reamde (2011)

“‘That’s real!?’ asked the girl. ‘Of course it’s real, Vicki! What did you think it was, polyester!?’ ‘You killed that bear, Uncle Dick?’ ‘I fired two slugs into its body while my client was rediscovering long-forgotten tree-climbing skills. Not long after, its heart stopped beating. . . . I carried it on my back across the United States border,’ Richard heard himself explaining. ‘With the skull and everything, it weighed about half as much as I did at that age.’ ‘Why’d you do that?’ ‘Because it was illegal. Not shooting the bear. That’s okay, if it’s self-defense. But then you’re supposed to turn it over to the authorities.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because,’ said Peter, figuring it out, ‘otherwise, people would just go out and kill bears. They would claim it was self-defense and keep the trophies.’

‘How far was it?’ ‘Two hundred miles.’ ‘You must have wanted it pretty bad!’ ‘I didn’t.’ ‘Why did you carry it on your back two hundred miles then?’ ‘Because the client wanted it.’ ‘I’m confused!’ Vicki complained, as if her emotional state were really the important thing here. ‘You did that just for the client?’ ‘It’s the opposite of that!’ Zula said, slightly indignant. Peter said, ‘Wait a sec. The bear attacked you and your client—’ ‘I’ll tell the story!’ Richard announced, holding up a hand. . . .

‘The client’s dog started it. Hassled the poor bear. The bear picked the dog up in its jaws and started shaking it like a squirrel.’ ‘Was it like a poodle or something?’ Vicki asked. ‘It was an eighty-pound golden lab,’ Richard said. ‘Ohmygod!’ ‘That is kind of what I was saying. When the lab stopped struggling, which didn’t take long, the bear tossed it into the bushes and advanced on us like: If you had anything whatsoever to do with that fucking dog, you’re dead. . . . There was no bravery involved, if that’s what you’re thinking. There was only one climbable tree. The client was not setting any speed records getting up it. We couldn’t both climb it at the same time, is all I’m saying. And not even a horse can outrun a grizzly. . . . So I went down on one knee because I was shaking so badly and emptied it into the bear. The bear ran away and died a few hundred yards from our camp.

We went and found the carcass. The client wanted the skin. I told him it was illegal. He offered me money to do this thing for him. So I started skinning it. This took days. A horrible job. . . . The more time I spent—the deeper I got into it—the more I didn’t want the client to have it,’ Richard continued. ‘He wanted it so badly. I was down there covered in gore, fighting off yellow jackets, and he’d mosey down from camp and size it up, you know. I could see him visualizing it on the floor of his office or his den. Broker from New York. I just knew he would tell lies about it—use it to impress people. Claim he’d bagged it himself while his chickenshit guide climbed a tree. We got to arguing. Stupid of me because I was already deep into the illegality of it. I’d placed myself in a totally vulnerable position. He threatened to turn me in, get me fired, if I didn’t give him the trophy. So I said fuck you and just walked away with it. Left him with the keys to the truck so he could get home.’ Silence. ‘I didn’t even really want it that badly,’ Richard insisted. ‘I just couldn’t let him take it home and tell lies about it.’”—Neal Stephenson, Reamde (2011)